#259

Jeanette and I booked a trip to Sweden, the land of my Viking ancestors. Nice guys, Vikings. My 'Grandpa Swede' was, indeed, Swedish. His name was 'Swede' as surely as I am 'Dan'; he was never called anything else. As for the Vikings, they're probably misunderstood, woven into history as brutal, hedonic pirates or seafaring explorer-adventurers. The truth is often in the middle. I'm certain they didn't work soul-crushing nine-to-fives. This surprises me, but I'm not 100% Viking. My ancestors include Native Americans, British explorers, German craftsmen, and Irish writers, humorists, and first-rate drinkers. Superstars, every one. How else can I explain the awesomeness of my children?

I don't brag about M 'n' m enough. My dad talked a big game about me. In my presence it could be uncomfortable, but I realize now it helped an insecure little boy become... an insecure manchild? No, I'm grateful. I'm grateful Papa Mike was forthcoming and generous in adulating my athletic and academic triumphs. He told tales about game-winning shots and homeruns and academic ass-kickings. And they were true. Tall and excessive at times, but true. I praise M 'n' m in private. I should do more, verbally, in public. It's not my nature, but they deserve it. I've never seen a bad grade. They devour books. They hit homeruns. They're expressive, creative, and witty. Their ancestors would be proud.